


Cherries to Ashes

by nom



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Baking, Community: blindfold_spn, Masturbation, Other, Pie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-31
Updated: 2011-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-22 16:28:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nom/pseuds/nom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fucked-up take on the prompt: "Dean <em>really</em> likes pie."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cherries to Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Season 5, before Sam's return.

Dean is in Lisa's kitchen, all alone.

Ben is at school, Lisa's at work. Dean is baking a pie.

He cooks more now that he's with Lisa, grilling and pasta and even making salads as some kind of memorial to his lost idiot brother. But the only thing he bakes is pie.

He's always known having good tools and taking good care of them's important to getting a job done.

He's got a marble slab for rolling out the dough and a solid, weighty roller from some fancy kitchen store. His pie tins are top of the line. Fucking 30 bucks for a pie tin, he can barely believe it. But the pies come out just right, every time.

Ingredients are important too. On the counter he's got Bing cherries, tart-sweet and plump. Simple syrup. A secret stash of lard he keeps hidden in the garage freezer, to make the crust taste better. A tiny dash of rum in the filling. Those are some of his secrets.

When he's done with prep, the remaining strips of dough carefully latticed over the filling, pie tucked safely into the perfectly preheated oven, Dean cleans up.

Dean is tidy, Dean is clean. All the flour wiped away, every stray grain of sugar wiped up, all the ingredients back in their ziplocs and snapclears and whatever-the-fucks, put back on their cupboard and refrigerator shelves.

Dean washes the bowls, slab, rolling-pin, all the utensils he used while the pie is baking, makes sure everything is clean. No butter or flour or cherry-stains or blood on these hands anymore, no sir, especially not by the time Lisa or the kid get home.

When the timer pings, Dean takes his pie out of the oven, sets it on the cooling rack.

He knows the pie is still too hot, so he gets the guns he never uses anymore out of the Impala's trunk. Strips them, cleans them, oils them, puts them back together.

It's important to take care of your tools. Be prepared, even if you won't ever use these things again because the threat is gone and you can't fucking get to your guns or your old life or the missing part of you anyway.

No, now is not the time to be morose and angry. He's made pie. Pie's supposed to make him happy, so he's going to be fucking happy.

Dean tidies up, puts his newly cleaned guns back in the Impala's trunk, and back in the kitchen washes his hands again before going over to the pie.

Yes, it's cooled down enough. Dean sticks a finger into the pie. It doesn't really fit between the golden brown latticework. It never does.

When he brings his finger up, it's dripping red. Not really like blood, wrong color and too thick.

Dean brings his finger to his mouth, flicks out his tongue. Careful lick, sweet-tangy explosion against his taste-buds. He sucks his finger, slow then hard, chasing all the taste of cherry pie-filling away until underneath he tastes gun oil, disinfectant kitchen soap, and skin.

Again he dips his finger, licks and sucks. With his other hand he's got his jeans undone, takes his cock out, strokes it from half-hard to full.

Dipping his finger a few more times, sucking it off, he brings himself to orgasm, hard punishing strokes to his cock, the vicious twist to the head that makes him come making him bite down on his finger, hard.

Most of his come's on his hand, though he'll have to clean the one cupboard door. Later. He brings his come-covered hand to his mouth. Licks about half of it off, and carefully transfers as much of the rest of it as he can into the filling-depleted holes he made in the pie.

He takes a knife and cuts the damaged portion of the pie, sets it on a plate. Delicate china, almost overwhelmed by the big slice of pie. Sits down at the breakfast bar and picks up his fork.

Dean can already taste it, the particular flavor of this piece of pie. Just like the similar pieces he's cut himself of the pies he's baked before.

Combination of sweet cherries and bitter come, salty, tangy, sour and sweet, balancing on the edge of too much sugar and just right, whiff of alcohol and regret, crust crumbling around it. It isn't good exactly, it's what he has.

He finishes the tainted portion of the pie. Sam's slice.

He'll serve the rest, the clean part, for dessert tonight.


End file.
